ࡱ> U pbjbjnn 7aaJi::8ln,\3j2222222$4|7P29"23K$K$K$2K$2K$K$s&&`zgc"v&2,30\3&7"r7&&77(l K$22K$\37:B |: THE PHOTOGRAPH By Sen Patrick Duffy West Virginia Fiction Competition, 3rd Place Winner Selected by Crystal Wilkinson Crystal Wilkinson wrote the following critique of Duffys story, which we are happy to share with readers. The draft that you see below is the revised version: Congratulations on winning third place! Your story is rich with family and culture and a definitive sense of place. When you use dialogue, its fantastic. I saw your greatest challenge as relying too much on description, especially the opening scene is filled with so much description and back story that we dont see Vincenzo in his body enough to ground the reader solidly into the character and the actions of the character. This first three pages focuses too much on a description of the photograph. I know its the title and I see the significance, but perhaps work on making the scene more aligned with Vincenzos actions. Otherwise, your story is rich and engaging. Vincenzo waited patiently until Nonnas snoring was loud and steady before hefting his chair to a spot beneath the photograph. He knew she would sleep now by the stove until Mamma returned from the market with Mamie. He climbed slowly onto the seat, fighting the rickety legs for balance, reaching up to grasp the bottom of the rough wooden frame, then gently lifting it over the nail heads securing it to the wall. He slipped back to the floor carefully, quietly, so as not to wake the old woman and incur her wrath. Like a sacred shrine, the photograph was never to be touched by human hands, least of all, the boys. Vincenzo crept across the floor like Sheeta, the leopard in one of his Tarzan books, hunting a sleeping Manu, the monkey, in a treeeach step measured, deliberate; each breath shallow, his eyes fixed on the snoring woman. But stealthy Sheeta flushed a bird in the form of an old floor board. It squawked betrayal halfway to the kitchen table. Nonna gasped and moaned. The kerchiefed head nodded. Her jowls shook. Vincenzo froze. She murmured in that Old World Italian, something about that god damned alley cat peeing in the house again. Vincenzo stood perfectly still until the snore grew steady again. He set the photograph quietly on the table then tip-toed back for the chair. Sliding it silently up to the table, he knelt on the seat and placed his elbows on either side of the frame. A startling image in black, white, and shades of brown, the photograph had lost none of its emotional power in the two years since what Mamma called the sorrow. There was Pap, lying in the coffin, appearing to float on a cloud of white lilies, carnations, and dark palm fronds, his brown face puffy, his big hands resting on his belly, tied together by rosary beads. The crucifix hanging inside the silk lined coffin lid was tilted slightly so that the bronze painted pot metal Christ could peer at poor Paps dark, swollen eyelids. Pap was wearing his black suit with the big round buttons. The same suit he was married in. The one he only wore on Easter Sunday and to Christmas Eve Mass. He would be wearing it tonight, right now, for midnight Mass at Saint Johns. Vincenzo pictured him, standing in the back of the church, holding the collection basket like a knight holds his lance, winking at his family. Gustavo Fiorini of Aquinostrong, proud, invincible. Vincenzo gazed at Mamma in the photograph. She wore a black hat with a black veil covering her entire head like a beekeepers hat, her eyes cast downward, unable to look at Pap. She was visibly stricken. Drained. The portrait of grief. A victim of the sorrow. From his earliest memories, Vincenzo could always see the love his parents had for one other. They grew up together, in Aquino, the children of goat farmers, in love since childhood. Yes, their marriage was arranged in Italy, but they would not have tolerated any other arrangement. We would have come to America a lot sooner, Pap would laugh. I dont have eyes, or heart, or stomach for no other girl! Tua madre la mia anima gemella, my soul mate. Vincenzo and his sister, Mamie, spoke Italian freely at home but dare not utter a sentence of it at St. Johns school, lest the nuns crack their knuckles with a ruler. Vincenzo also spoke fluent Polish, some German, Czech, Hungarian, and even Greeka side benefit of eleven years of full immersion in a neighborhood of immigrants. In the photograph, Nonna stood to the left of Mamma, in the center of the coffin, hovering above her dead son, her eyes closed piously. She cut an imposing figure in a black hood and robe, her large hands folded in front of her breast, mirroring her sons hands below. How many meals had those old hands prepared? How much polenta, or pasta fazul, or ox tail soup? How many chicken necks had they snapped? How much laundry had they scrubbed on the washboard? How many babies had they tenderly cradled? Vincenzo could not imagine. He glanced over at the snoring figure across the room. It was hard to believe this was the same woman, with her powerful talons and fangs tucked away for sleep, like a potato bug, rolled into a harmless looking, purring ball. The photograph was taken on the side of a small, September-baked grassy hill at Mount Calvary Cemetery, where the Catholics were buried. Across the Old Pike from Greenwood, where the Protestants, and the Jews, and the Greeks moldered in their graves, its ground was consecrated by different clerics, in different vestments, in the name of a common god, who, inexplicably to Vincenzos young mind, refused to sanction the mixing of his adoring tribes, even for purposes of entombment. So, they were separated in death, but in life many of these same men had labored together in the coal mines, where they met their fate like Pap did, chewed and swallowed by the same earth that now ensconced them. They hammered and dynamited and picked and shoveled, hauling out tons of shiny black rock to fuel a nation, insatiable at war and insatiable at peace. Did their souls mix in heaven? Vincenzo wondered. Did they dance together in the Lords light? Or did some languish in Limbo for having chosen the wrong clerics in the wrong vestments to shepherd them? Nonna would have shown him the back of one of those gnarled hands for entertaining such thoughts. Mamma would have shrugged and said, Its a mystery. Ora mangia! Eat! And Pap? Pap would have picked him up, put him on his big shoulders and said, A statazit! Be quiet! We go fishing! In the photograph, Vincenzos uncles, Giacomo and Matteo, a coal miner and a stone mason, stood to the right of Mamma. His arms akimbo, Uncle Giacomo looked tired and angry. Uncle Matteo just looked tired. Both had the disheveled hair and clothing of men who had spent the last few sleepless nights drinking homemade wine and grieving an older brother who had been their rock. Vincenzo, dressed in a little white borrowed linen suit stood next to his sister, Mamie, who was dressed exactly like a miniature of her Mamma, amid a group of cousins. The children all had the same look: exhausted bewilderment. At the foot of the coffin stood a large wreath of pine branches, pine cones and flowers, wrapped by a silken ribbon with the words Ordine Figli dItalia, (Sons of Italy) Glenwood, W.VA. Vincenzo remembered the words on the death certificate, written in the nearly illegible scrawl of an American doctor in permanent haste: Occupation: Coal Miner. Cause of death: Crushed through chest and left leg. Pap mined coal. That was his job. But he was never a coal miner, at least not to Vincenzo. To Vincenzo, Pap was a fisherman, a poker player, a carpenter, a chef, a storyteller, an undefeated Roman gladiator, a great operatic tenor, a comedian, and a poet. The job killed Pap. The mountain took him, like it took so many others. And then came the sorrow. And the photograph. And now Mamma was expected to marry again if they were to stay in the coal camp. But Mamma would never marry again. Vincenzo knew this, like he knew when Babe Ruth would get another home run, or when the catfish would bite, or when Tarzan would call Tantor, the elephant. A rush of cold air announced the return of Mamma and Mamie. Vincenzo had lost track of time! As Nonna grumbled and stirred, he grabbed the photograph with one hand, the top of the chair with the other, and hurried to the wall. The front door slammed shut just as he was straightening the photograph on the nails that held it fast. He flopped onto the chair and commenced an exaggerated yawn as if waking from a nap of his own. Thinking he was safe amid the chaos of rustling paper bags and food being unpacked Vincenzo slowly lifted one of his eyelids to have a peak. There was Mamma, standing over him, hands on her hips, glaring. She reached above him, angrily straightening the photograph, then grabbed him by the ear. You will help us now Vincenzo! she demanded. You want to eat? You help. By seven oclock, the old wooden table was straining under the weight of heaping, steaming platters of food for the Festa dei Sette Pesci, the glorious feast of the seven fishes. Most of the fishes either came out of the old dirty river or from the hands of Uncle Matteo, who brought them in a burlap sack full of ice on the train from Pittsburgh. Vincenzo chuckled to himself as he imagined the Americans on the train shooting Uncle Matteo dirty looks and holding their noses. The Sommerfield company store only had sardines in a can. So Mamma made sardines in red sauce and covered it with the red peppers that she grew in pots, then dried on strings outside the window so she could crush them with her hands. Golden brown smelts, the wonderfully garlicky baccala, a hillock of calamari with tentacles protruding like curly purple fingers, the linguini with white clam sauce, and the shiny black eel with the crumbling brown flour coat that simply would not stay put. You gotta have the eel, Nonna would insist, even though she was the only one who ate it. It good. Good. Good! You kids dunno what you miss! This was one of the few times she would bother with Englishto lobby for the virtues of the eel. And there in the middle of the table was numero settethe big channel catfish Vincenzo had caught just that morning with his handline, cutting a hole in the ice to drop a hook baited with vanilla doughball. The channel cat was baked golden brown, head still attached, with a bright red apple stuffed in his gaping mouth. Vincenzo knew it would end up a table dressing as guests would avoid eating a fish from the dirty river, what with the table bursting with so many better options, including capellini aglio olio, Aunt Carmellas gnocchi, Nonnas wedding soup, fried eggplant, all kinds of cheese, fruit, lupini, roasted chestnuts, and of course, gallon jugs of Uncle Giacomos homemade dago red wine. Uncle Giacomo said only the dagos could call it that. Then Mr. Wjcik the mine loader would call it that. And Uncle Giacomo would glare at him cartoonishly for a while, then laugh that big, startling laugh that would make his eyes look like fluttering butterflies. A few minutes later the neighbors started knocking. First came the Wjciks with fried carp and oplatek, the Polish Christmas wafers. Then came Mr. Lakovides, the Greek mine timberman, and his wife and children with their boarder Mr. Dimitriou, a loader, carrying lahanodolmathes, the cabbage rolls. Mr. Collins, from Ireland, the bachelor motorman, brought homemade beer. Mr. Ashby, also a loader, with his family from the colored camp, brought deviled eggs and rhubarb pie. Uncle Giacimo, the mine bratticeman, and Aunt Carmella burst in with all the noisy cousins followed by Uncle Matteo, the bachelor and stone mason, who built every church in Pittsburgh. Having already heroically brought the all-important fishes, despite the contempt of the Americans, he now brought the all-important poker cards. Vincenzo always looked forward to shaking Uncle Matteos hand. Huge and calloused from breaking rocks, it engulfed Vincenzos little boy paw, but was still as gentle as a rabbits belly. Oh no! No! No! Ouch, eh Vincenzo! Let go! Uncle Matteo would always joke. Mani di pietra! Hands of stone. You crush me. I cannot work no more! Gimme back my poor hand! Vincenzo would laugh and flex his muscles, then pound his chest like Bolgani, the gorilla. Soon the little one-room house was bursting with humanity, adults crammed side by side at the table, children sitting on laps, or on the counter, or even on the bedsevery flat surface was a seat. The house was full of chatter, and laughter, clinking dishes, and delicious aromas. After the feasting, Mr. Dimitriou, who had brought his bouzouki, and Mr. Ashby, who had brought his banjo, started a two-man band. Everyone danced. Some did the polka, some the Tarantella, some the hasapiko, some even tried the Charleston, and some just spun in circles. But everyone dancedeveryone but Nonna, who sat in her corner and complained. Vincenzo got dizzy spinning on the floor and laughing with his cousins, who would run to the table to try to sneak sips of wine. After the dancing, the women sat and talked at one end of the table. The other kids went outside to make snowballs. But Vincenzo took a seat at the other end of the table, watching the men play poker. Pap would always play with Vincenzo sitting on his lap. You bring me luck, he would say, and give Vincenzo a kiss on the cheek. The truth was, Pap had no luck at all. He would lose all the scrip, until Mamma shot him the look. One more hand, he would say. This is the one. But it was never the one. Pap didnt care. I win it all back at the track. He never won it back. Not that his gambling hurt. He only used the scrip. Pap made the American money running numbers for Mr. Lupo, the Mano Nerathe Black Hander. Only the numbers. Never the violence. Pap would insist. It did hurt to lose that income when he died, but Mamma made it up by doing laundry for the rich people, and Nonna and Mamie helped her make the bread that they sold to the market in Wheeling. By nine-thirty, the feasting was done. The table looked like a battlefield. Even the channel cat was just a skeleton, a casualty of the war of gluttony. The apple in his mouth had a bite taken out of it. Everyone helped clear the table as Vincenzo, Mamie and the cousins washed the dirty dishes in the big Wheeling Steel tub. One by one, the neighbors left, some to get ready for Mass, some to go home and get ready for Christmas morning. Soon it was just Mamma, Uncle Matteo, and Nonna sitting at the table. Nonna was nodding off. Mamie was asleep on her bed and Vincenzo sat in his chair, looking up at the photograph. The pre-Mass quiet was shattered by an impatient, firm knock on the front door that continued far longer than courtesy permitted. Before anyone could get up, the door swung open and a blast of chilly air swept the house, stirring Nonna and Mamie. There stood Peter Harlow, the mine boss, who never usually bothered to knock. Vincenzo frowned. This was the man who sent Pap into a new, untested part of the mine where the roof collapse killed him. This was the man who, according to all the talk in the camp, did everything he could to kill Pap because he lusted for Mamma. But no one dared say so for Mamma to hear. She would sooner behead Peter Harlow with her hat pin than hold his hand. This was the same man who wore a white sheet and marched to St. Johns church with thirty or so of his comrades, also in white sheets, threatening to burn the church to the ground because, Glenwood didnt need Papists or Anarchists. Many of the same men who were at dinner that evening had stood around the church that night with guns or with knives or with baseball bats or with just bare knuckles to defend the church from the Ku Klux Klan. Harlows Klan. Mr. Sommerfield, the mine owner and Harlows uncle, put an end to the Klans menace. After all, where would Sommerfield Coal Mine find workers who would mine coal for less money? And if Harlow kept it up, the union would come back. And now that same Peter Harlow stood in Mammas house on Christmas Eve, and no good could come of it. Good evening, he said, grinning as he removed his bowler hat. He stared at Mamma, then said, Merry Christmas Mrs. Fiorini. And all here. As he unbuttoned his overcoat he asked, May I come in? No one said a word. Mamma didnt blink. Ah it smells so good in here, Harlow continued, glancing at the bowls of leftovers on the kitchen counter. Dont mind me. Pretend Im not here. He pulled a chair up next to Mamma and sat down. It was then that another man entered. One of Harlows mine guards. He rarely went to the camps without one. Oh dont mind Sam, Harlow said, waving brusquely toward the man. Sam dont be a party pooper. Take your coat off and sit. Have some dago food. Its better than that Irish swill you live on. Though several feet away, Vincenzo could smell the whiskey on Harlows breath. Sam did as he was told despite the angry stare from Matteo. After examining the food and making pained faces, Sam chose some plain spaghetti, bread, and beer. He sat down heavily across from Matteo and stuffed the food into his maw, noisily, like Duro, the hippopotamus. Vincenzo was disgusted by the way he slurped the spaghetti into his mouth as noisily as possible. Uncle Matteo looked at Mamma questioningly. She shook her head, and frowned. Uncle Matteo took a drag from his cigarette and stared at Harlow, who was now helping himself to some of Uncle Giacomos homemade wine. Look Cathy, Harlow said, rudely Americanizing Caterina, I didnt come here to ruin your Christmas Eve, so Ill just get to the point. Youre a grieving widow. I get it. But its been two years now. If youre gonna stay here at the resort, the boys gonna hafta start. Now usually, a dummy like this one would start out as a breaker boy. But for you? For you sweet Cathy, Im gonna make Vinnie here a trapper. Harlow switched to a mocking Italian accent. He open a-door. He let em in. He close a-the door. Piece a cake, huh babydoll? Harlows new strategy was clear. He would use Vincenzo to break Mamma. Vincenzo slowly walked toward Mamma as Harlow spoke. He kept his eyes on Harlows hands, now folded on the table in front of himthe fingers thin and pale like dead smelt, not like Paps strong brown hands. Vincenzo stood up tall behind Momma, just as Harlow unfolded his fishy fingers to light a cigarette. Well? Cat got your tongue? he smirked, exhaling toward Vincenzos face. Its a good fair offer, and itll keep this fine roof over your head. Alternatively Please dont smoke in my house. Mamma interrupted, without a hint of anger in her voice. Harlow grinned, looked back at Uncle Matteo, blew a ring of smoke into the air, and doused his cigarette in his wine glass. I never liked dago red, he huffed. Only we can call it that. Vincenzo said. Harlow smiled and winked at Vincenzo. Fine, he said. I get it. Your house, your rules. Wait a minute, wait a minute. This aint your house, huh? This is Mr. Sommerfields house. Aint that right Vinnie? You live here through the philanthropic, patriotic generosity of Mr. Andrew Jackson Sommerfield, friend of the immigrant. No charity, Uncle Matteo interrupted. My brother work for this shack. He died for it. Shack? Harlow feigned offense. You call this a shack, Fiorini? Your brother liked it just fine Mamma slammed her fist on the table, causing Sam to look up from his plate and Harlows wine glass to tip over. The wine splashed on his lap. He shoved his chair back angrily and stood, brushing at his pants with a napkin. Nonna snorted. Mamie ran to her mother and jumped into her lap. Vincenzo covered his mouth, fighting back a chuckle. You killed my brother Gustavo, Matteo said. You and your fucking coal mine. I no work for you. I dont care what you think. You no scare me. They need the union here at Glenwood. That would fix you! We dont need no union, no eye-tie anarchists, no commies! Harlow shot back. Look what the steel workers did. Its un-American. And you Guineas are always right there in the middle of it. Matteo stood and slammed his fist on the table. No Matteo! Mamma warned, slamming the table again, this time with her open hand. This is my house. You let me handle it. Sam stood and pulled his Billy club from his belt. Matteo put his hand in his pocket. Vincenzo knew he was reaching for the slapjack. Seeing the situation getting out of hand, Mamma slid Mamie to the floor. You go. Mamma said. Go tell la familia! Bring them here. Little Mamie ran to the door without hesitation and slipped into the darkness. Bring her back. Harlow ordered the mine guard, who huffed, returned his Billy club to its sheath, threw his napkin on the table with disgust, and slouched clumsily into the darkness after Mamie. I killed the great Italian ape, Gustavo Fiorini? Little old me? Thats what yer tellin me? Harlow stood up, and walked toward the photograph. He peered at it, squinting his eyes and moving his face just a few inches away. What the hell is this? Who takes creepy pictures of dead guys? he sneered, reaching for the frame. No! Vincenzo shrieked. Dont touch that! Harlow froze. He glanced at Mamma. She stared back, icily, shaking her head. Harlow snorted and lifted the photograph roughly from the nails. Vincenzo roared and lunged, wailing with both fists at Harlows thigh. Harlow dropped the photograph to grab Vincenzo by the neck. Nonna screamed and cursed in Italian. Matteo kicked his chair back and clenched his massive fists. Stop! Put him down! Mamma demanded, her voice loud, authoritative, but calm. Silence. All eyes turned to Mamma, who was now standing on her chair with Paps old Winchester shotgun jammed against her shoulder, the barrel leveled at Harlows face. She pulled the hammer back with her thumb. The click echoed through the little house. Take your hands off my boy. She commanded. Harlow obeyed, releasing Vincenzo and raising his hands above his head. Vincenzo stooped to grab the photograph, carefully shaking off the broken glass. He ran to the table to assess the damage. Matteo took a step toward Harlow. Sit down Matteo, Mamma said calmly. Sit down and statazit. Matteo sat down. Matteo stayed quiet. Everyone except Harlow sit down. Everyone statazit! Mamma continued. Everyone sat down. Everyone stayed quiet. Youre crazy, Harlow began. Ill Shut up! He shut up. You get outta my house now. And you never come back. If you do, Ill kill you. Harlow shuffled backwards toward the door, feeling for obstacles, keeping his eyes fixed on Mamma. Youll hang for this! he threatened, his voice shaking. Ill kill you first, Mamma promised, in an icy voice that made Harlow swallow hard. Nonna now stood back up, her pale blue eyes locked on Harlow. She held up her right hand and her body started to tremble, then convulse. She threw her head back. Her mouth fell open. She pulled down her lower eyelid with her left hand and pointed at Harlow with her right. The talons unfurled as she growled, a low guttural growl. Like Mangani, thought Vincenzothe great ape. What the hell is wrong with her? Harlow screeched. Whats that old witch up to? Uh oh. Said Matteo, making the sign of the cross. What? What? What is it? demanded Harlow, now on the verge of hysterics. Its the malocchio! Matteo hissed. The evil eye. My mamma is Strega. Jettatura. Bad stuff. Holy shit, you done it now! She putting that old country curse on you. You doomed now, boy. You got no chance now. You come back in this house, your heart a-stop! Your soul go straight to hell. Vincenzo saw Uncle Matteos subtle wink. He knew this was not the malocchio. Whatever Nonna was doing was something else. A ruse to frighten the Harlow. Just then the door flew open. The mine guard stumbled in as if shoved. Behind him came all of the adults who had been dinner guests: first Uncle Giacimo (with his baseball bat at the ready), then Aunt Carmella, the Ashbys, Mr. Dimitriou, the Wjciks, and the Lakovides. And behind them came little Mamie. They looked in turn at Mamma and Nonna and Harlow with varying degrees of wonderment. What is going on here? Giacimo finally asked. Mr. Harlow was just leaving. Mamma replied, gesturing toward the door with the barrel of her shotgun. Magdalena is putting the malocchio on him before he goes. added Matteo.  This is a bad one, from way back before the Romans. Matteo turned his head and winked at the neighbors so that Harlow couldn t see.  Aha! said Mrs. Wjcik,  ZBe oko. Yes. She then pulled down on her own eyelid and snarled at Harlow.  To matiasma! said Mrs. Lakovides, pulling her eyelid and chanting in Greek. Bad mojo, said Mrs. Ashby, pointing toward Harlow and hissing, her tongue poking in and out of her mouth like a viper. Harlow was now in full panic. He rushed toward the mine guard, pulled him to his feet and the two men stumbled out of the house, slamming the door behind them. Peter Harlow never set foot in the Fiorini house again. By spring, Mamma, Nonna, Mamie, and Vincenzo had moved to Pittsburgh to stay with Uncle Matteo so that Vincenzo could learn to be a real Italian stone mason. Mamie said she would be a stone mason too. Uncle Matteo did not say no. He did ask Mamma to marry him, numerous times. Mamma did say no, numerous times. She and Nonna were cooking for rich people, catering weddings and funerals, saving money to open a restaurant. There are enough Italians in Pittsburgh for a thousand restaurants, Uncle Matteo declared. Just build the goddammed churches, Matteo, Mamma said. One day, a letter came in the mail from Glenwood, West Virginia. It was from Mrs. Ashby. There was a big eyeball drawn on the back of the envelope. Uncle Matteo let Vincenzo open the letter. He used a letter opener with a handle shaped like Italy, careful to preserve Mrs. Ashbys artwork. Inside was a folded piece of paper with the word MOJO written on it in big block letters. Folded inside the sheet of paper was a clipping from the Wheeling newspaper. Mine Boss Killed by Train, the headline proclaimed. Peter Harlow, boss at the Sommerfield Mine at Glenwood was run over and killed on the B&O Railroad last night. Harlow fell asleep on the tracks and was cut in two. Drunkenness invited the catastrophe. He died a bachelor. Harlow was the seventh Glenwood man to be mangled by a train so far this year. At this rate, a new record is assured. Harlow will be interred at the Greenwood Cemetery. After reading the article two more times, Vincenzo placed it on the table. 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